Puddles of Crimson
by Casset90
Summary: Fredrick doesn't inflict the final blow to Shosanna and they share their last living moments together. Contrary to expectations, not excessively 'mushy' and rated T for language. Oneshot for now.


Have just re-watched 'Inglorious Basterds' and, as I have an upcoming test on the simultaneous change of P.O.V.s in one chapter (thank you David Malouf), decided I would practice with this scene. Hope it's not too confusing ^^'

Presentation inspired by the fiction 'Daydreamer' (Evelyn Rose Marks).

* * *

'Bonsoir Emmanuelle.' **(Good evening, Emmanuelle.)**

_Merde_; was it too hard to sit your ass down, watch the screening, and die like the rest? Why did he have to smudge her elaborately drawn out plans?'Je suis désolé Fredrick-' **(I am sorry Fredrick-)**

'Je me suis dit que j'allais monter et faire ce que je fais le mieux : vous embêter.'**(I told myself that I would go up and do what I do best: bother you.)** And the fool smiles widely before adding nonchalantly : 'Et à la tête que vous faites, il semblerait que je n'ai pas perdu la main.' **(And at the face you're making, it looks like I haven't lost my touch.)** Shosanna's patience was thinning: she didn't have time for this silliness. The mere thought of her vengeance failing because of this infatuated dimwit brought a warm wave of frustration upon her.

'Vous êtes tellement habitué à ce que les Nazis vous lèchent les bottes que vous avez oublié ce que signifiait le mot « non » ? Non, vous ne pouvez pas rester ici. Maintenant, allez-vous en!" **(You are so used to the Nazis licking your boots that you've forgotten the meaning of the word "no"? No, you may not stay here. Now, fuck off!)**

And she slammed the door, only to meet an unexpected resistance that pushed her backwards on her feet. The soldier stood towering in the entrance, a new dominant and imposing version of pale Private Zoller. Her skin throbbed where the metal doorknob had scrapped it. Shosanna should have known better than to underestimate him, with such high stakes she couldn't afford to be careless. Now, she would have to improvise.

'Fredrick, vous m'avez fait mal.' **(Fredrick, you hurt me.)**

'Ma foi, ça fait plaisir de voir que vous pouvez ressentir quelque chose. Même si c'est juste de la douleur physique.' **(By God, it's nice to see that you are capable of feeling something. Even if it's just physical pain.)** How he yearned to shake that pretty, empty little head of hers back into reason!

Emmanuelle's stubbornly calm composure irritated him to no end: had he not been anything but kind and courteous? 'Je ne suis pas un homme à qui on dit « Allez-vous en » ! Il y a plus de trois cent cadavres en Italie qui, s'ils le pouvaient, en témoigneraient !' **(I'm not a man to whom we say «Fuck off»! There are more than three hundred bodies in Italy who, if they could, would testify!) **Who did she think she was to treat him, a national hero, in such an insolent manner? Was she straddled so tight on her high horse that she'd forgotten the meaning of the word "respect"?

'Après tout ce que j'ai fait pour vous, vous me manquez de respect à vos risques et périls !'**(After all I did for you, you disrespect me at your own risks and perils !)**

'Fermez la porte.' **(Close the door.) **She was looking him strait in the eyes now, her expression all business. Calculating thoughts shone through her seeming less controlled exterior. She couldn't possibly be human.

'Quoi ?' **(What?)**

'Fermez la porte à clé. On a pas beaucoup de temps.' **(Lock the door. We don't have much time.) **Again, the same expression. Fredrick hesitated: surely, he had misheard.

'Attends, quoi?'** (Wait, what?) **He knew he was fooling himself. She had been quite direct (perhaps a little too much so, a fine woman as herself? Surely?).It was painstakingly obvious she was selling herself to him. By obligation. He would be lying if he claimed it wasn't what he had hoped for, yet…part of him, probably the most romantic and naïve factions of his heart, wished she would have given herself willingly.

'Pffff… Laissez tomber.' **(Pffff… ****Nevermind.)** Emmanuelle had regained her usual confidence upon noticing his now hesitant manner and triumphantly turned her back on him. She was a child again, a girl who loved to play new games and grew easily bored of them. Fredrick couldn't let his chance disappear so quickly—

'Non-non-non-non! Attendez.' **(No-no-no-no! Wait.)** One look of her hazy blues convinced him to settle for what she had to offer. He was, as she underlined so clearly, just a uniform and couldn't hope for more. He wasn't a complicated man.

'Vous voulez que je…' **(You want me to…) **Fredrick realized he had never been talked to this way by a woman before, in such an explicit manner. He wondered if it was natural to be so bold about these details in France –had angelic Emmanuelle already gave similar orders? He mustn't think of that now.

'Pour la cinquantième fois, oui.' **(For the fiftieth time, yes.)** Coming from her lips, the bitter-sweet confirmation sounded like a command and he hastened towards the door, fiddling with the small copper key.

The pain came as a shock.

It was one thing to prepare the conditions for mass murder, than to kill with one's own finger on the trigger. Just ask Hitler, he knows. Shosanna checked through the projection window if any of the other Nazis had stirred in their chairs. The audience didn't seem to notice the three gunshots –the tell-tale sounds had mingled with the presently projecting movie's main action scene.

As her heartbeat slowed, she stared at the familiar screen absent-mindedly. The projection depicted a handsome young Private Zoller single-handedly fighting off foes and yelling in German. She could see why he was a hero to his kind, why he was any _Fraulein_'s dream man. But hers, apparently.

A ragged cough interrupted her petty reminiscences. Face down, his muscles tense from the pain and his military garb slowly soaking his blood, the soldier looked anything but menacing now. It was undoubtedly a horrible way to go. Part of Shosanna panged with guilt: she had manipulated him to exact her vengeance, with the help of her feminine charms. Although not a lamb of the purest of whites himself, he had been nothing less than chivalrous to her.

The woman inched testily toward the immobile Fredrick. She had never witnessed the last moments of another. As she crouches down next to him, she realizes how much three bullets to the back must hurt. The least she could do was send him off to the next world with a sympathetic smile, or even (if she was feeling particularly merciful) a soft peck. Gently, she turned him over.

Unexpected loud bangs, propelled backwards, surprise, comprehension and then pain. Oh, the pain.

As Emmanuelle fell on her knees beside him, Private Zoller aimed for her blond skull with his slippery rifle. Hesitantly he fumbled with the trigger, putting off the inevitable _coup de grâce_. Even in unearthly pain, she was beautiful. He did not feel any resentment for being brought to the ground. As a soldier, you learn to accept the other's reasons. She had done what she had to do, and now it was his turn to fulfil what was expected of him. He resented only that she had to lie to him, had to get his hopes up before (literally) backstabbing him. When he finally did find the courage to inflict the final blow, he was relieved to observe he had emptied the remnant of his ammunition on the object of his desires. An excuse.

Both lied a meter away from each other, their difficult breathing synonym to punctured lungs and a slow, agonizing death.

'Pourquoi Emmanuelle?' **(Why Emmanuelle?)**

She met his stare, disbelieving. How could he still speak at a time like this? Weren't they sharing the same pain? She couldn't decide whether he was extremely lighthearted or extremely stupid. Either way, she had to admire his redundant quality. And he does deserve the truth, having paid the most expensive of prices.

'Je m'appelle Shosanna.' **(My name is Shosanna.)**

'Shosanna…' The letters tickled his tongue pleasantly. What else was she hiding, this little rebel of his? She was so close, if he extended his arm he could touch her. The promise of her soft skin was tempting.

'«Nénuphar» en Hébreu.' **("Lily" in Hebrew.) **She enlightened defiantly, smirking at his aghast expression: he had connected the dots, it seemed. An unusual atmosphere installed itself in the small projection room, heavy and silent but for the soundtrack of the movie and their gasps.

'En allemand on dit « Lilie ».' **(In German we say « Lilie ».) **Unlike his Parisian vixen, he didn't have the energy to defend his political ideals in this day and hour. He would rather think happier thoughts, ones that didn't involve a burning afterlife and three hundred Italian souls. And she was entertaining as ever –his attraction for the beautiful Ice Queen never ceased to increase, not even now.

It was Shosanna's turn to be taken aback by her partner in death's addition. She had expected a reaction of disgust, of anger and although slightly dizzy, she had planned to fade away proclaiming what she had long kept silent. There was a pause (she didn't know what to answer to Private Zoller), interrupted only by sounds of protestation gradually growing stronger from the theatre. The tape had started? Yes, she could hear her pre-recorded laughter and their screams. At least she wouldn't die in vain. At these thoughts, the little Jewish girl inside her beamed triumphantly. She had done it. For Maman, for Papa, for David and for all other innocent victims of this stupid conflict.

Smoke from the improvised bonfire started to filter into the room, accompanied by a series of heartbreaking coughs.

'Des derniers mots, chérie?' **(Any last words, honey?) **Fredrick chuckled and closed his eyes, trying to remember the faces of loved ones he had left behind and wondering how they would fair. He wasn't surprised when his mocking inquiry left Shosanna mute. She was a tough one, his gal. Wouldn't shake her unwavering wall of cold civility under any circumstance. He couldn't help but admire her.

'Je suis désolée, Fredrick.' **(I'm sorry Fredrick.) **And she truly was. He was a sweet, patient man and she didn't deserve his affections. Hesitantly, she brought her shaking hand to his cold one. Their eyes met again, exchanging sad, affectionate looks only pupils could translate.

They knew it could have ended differently, in another scenario, if the odds had been in their favour. Maybe, had she not been a Jew and he not a Nazi things would have turned out differently. Maybe, just maybe, she would have let herself be tempted by the luxury and prestige of being the companion (wife?) of a much respected soldier. And if Cupid had taken pity on them, there would have been the slimmest of chances she, upon discovering the person under the uniform, could have returned his feelings. It seems however that for these two, destiny had chosen a crueller path.

Their situation was ironic and their smiles crisped. Both could feel their lungs filling in blood, it was too late to finalize their mutual conclusion. Luckily, words only have so much power: the two were linked long before their puddles of crimson slowly merged together, their last thoughts resonating with regret.

* * *

Feedback always welcome –make my day! Inflate my ego! Encourage my muse!


End file.
